The Conductor of Light: AU: Saving Graceverse
by twisted-sheets
Summary: A side-story for Saving Grace. Sherlock Holmes AU. Arthur is a eccentric detective, Canada is his Watson, and America is a police inspector. Arthur's injury during a case brings reminds his former wards of a past injury and a promise made.
1. Chapter 1

**Title:**_**The Conductor of Light**_** [AU: **_**Saving Grace**_**-verse]**

**Disclaimer:** Er, I don't own Hetalia.

**Pairing: **Arthur × Alfred; hints of Francis × Matthew and Arthur + Matthew

**Rating:** PG-13, perhaps a bit of fluff. IDK.

**Author's notes:** A two-part side-story for the multipart fic _The Saving Grace of Antiquity_ written for the usxuk ficathon. Sherlock Holmes AU. Arthur Kirkland is the world's foremost independent consulting detective. Matthew Williams is his trusty companion, assistant and chronicler, and Alfred F. Jones is the tenacious and enthusiastic detective sergeant of the Yard.

**Warning:** Lots of spoilers for the Sherlock Holmes' stories. Also, this fic is possibly so fucking hurt/comfort cliché and fluff fail it _burns_. orz

**Part I**

It is not often said out loud, especially in the company of strangers, but it is a universally acknowledged truth between the twins that Arthur Kirkland, the brilliant and Bohemian independent consulting detective, is a cruel, arrogant, and _inconsiderate_ man, prone to fits of anger and mocking remarks and sarcasm, rarely if never bending to anyone's will except his own (_and tea_, Alfred would sometimes bitterly add, when he was particularly eloquent and frustrated with their former guardian, _he would cheerfully bend his obdurate ass for _tea).

"Damn you, Arthur," Alfred grits out. He tears the linen tablecloth into strips ferociously, the thin fabric no match to his strength and fury, giving away easily as if they were mere paper. "I told you to wait. For three minutes. Why could you not listen to _me_? Why must you be a stubborn" — the ripping sounds echoes rather loudly in the room — rip, rip, _riiip_ — "impatient," — Alfred pauses, and Matthew could hear him take a deep breath and swallow hard before continuing, punctuating his last word with another tear — "_bastard_?"

Beside him, Matthew is silent, teeth biting deep into his lower lip as he concentrates all his powers and knowledge in staunching his former — and now unconscious — guardian's still-bleeding wound, pressing the soaked and bloodied handkerchief with firm and constant pressure against the jagged gash with one hand while trying to wrap the strips of cloth Alfred had made to hold together the makeshift dressing in place.

He ignores the heavy thudding of his heart against his chest, ignores how cold and sweaty his hands have gotten. It is only a graze, Matthew tells himself, a _graze_, _only_ a graze, though a rather long, deep one that would likely need stitches — where is the damn _doctor_? Alfred had one of the constables call one _hours_ ago — but not–_not_ fatal, despite the copious amount of blood; head wounds merely have an inclination to have a somewhat melodramatic nature, a nasty fondness of appearing much worse than it truly is.

It takes him barely more than a minute to wrap the strips around Arthur's head, and as soon he is finished he checks for Arthur's pulse again, fingers over the carotid artery and sighs with relief to find it strong, not thready as he had feared, though weaker than it usually is.

Now if Arthur would do them the very great kindness of waking _up_, everything will be all right, and Matthew's heart would stop pounding so loudly against his chest. But Arthur's eyes remain closed; his head is still slumped against the cushioned back of the settee, his slightly parted lips as pale and bloodless as his face.

"Why isn't he waking up?" Matthew turns to Alfred at his question, and breathes sharply at how pale Alfred's face is, his blue eyes wide, pupils dilated, as if he was gazing into profound darkness. His hands are clenched in fists, knuckles white. "Is he concussed or is he–"

Matthew touches his brother's sleeve, interrupting him, and shakes his head. "I don't think he's had a concussion, but I'm not quite certain. It's possibly the loss of so much blood that made him unconscious, but don't worry–" he hastily adds when Alfred's eyes go impossibly wider, "the bleeding seems to be stopping. All we need is the doctor to sew him up and he'll–he'll be fine."

Alfred draws a shaky breath and nods. He turns back to Arthur and slowly, and very gently, as if he was touching the most fragile of china, brushes his trembling fingers against the detective's hair. His expression stills as his fingers reach the blood-matted locks near the dressing. "I told you to wait for me."

"I'm sorry, I should have–" Matthew starts to say quietly, but stops when the door bangs open. Alfred grabs his shoulder and shoves him behind, revolver out and aimed at the door. He lowers it when he sees it was only the constable Alfred had sent out to fetch doctor, and beside him was a middle-sized, strongly built man with blonde hair and tanned skin. In his one hand he carried a Gladstone, and 'round his neck was a stethoscope. His eyes, like the constable, went wide at the sight of the revolver pointed at them. For a moment, Matthew thought he would flee (even though Alfred had lowered his revolver), but the doctor just scowled and headed straight for them, a grim expression on his face. After politely telling them to get out of his way, he then proceeded to examine Arthur.

Alfred stood beside Matthew, hand still gripping his shoulder. Matthew briefly touched his brother's hand before turning back to the doctor, who was now about to remove Arthur's dressing.

Well, Matthew couldn't help but think bitterly, this was certainly an unexpected end to this case.

----

In hindsight, the whole affair probably was, in Arthur's point of view, an otherwise unremarkable case, though there were certain points of interest that had intrigued Arthur enough to take it in the beginning. The tale of a missing priceless Egyptian artefact with an ancient curse and its the dead owner, killed with a weapon that left strange bruises on the body, the curious arid sand and tattered rags scattered in the room, the breakneck chase in the back alleys and streets of London, all led to the rather commonplace crime of attempted burglary and murder precipitated by the _also_ commonplace sins of greed and lust.

It was the secretary who did it, Robert Blackwood. Him and the sweet, innocent-looking daughter of the house, the lovely Lady Alice Greymail, who had fainted dead away when Arthur produced the peculiarly shaped aluminium crutch that was her father's Arthur had recovered from only God knows where, the one she had used to bludgeon him to his death and left those strange bruises.

When she recovered, Lady Alice threw herself at Arthur's feet and begged him to have mercy for her lover. "He did it for me, Mr. Kirkland," she declared pathetically, tears in her pleading doe-brown eyes. "He loved me so, but Papa would not have it, would not give in. He banished my sweet Rob, forbade me from meeting him again. I could not bear it, and neither could he. Rob tried to reason with him, but Papa became so enraged and tried to reach for his pistol. I could not let him hurt my Rob so I hit him."

_You__ and your lover hit him more than a dozen times_, Matthew wanted to say, but she looked so pitiful then, that both him and Arthur did not have the heart to tell her the truth: her lover was a scheming, thelyphthoric drunken gamester up to his neck in debt, and had seduced her for a wager and her inheritance, that she had been cruelly used and deceived.

Alfred, however, was in a less tactful frame of mind.

It took two constables to keep the screeching woman from scratching his eyes out.

Near the end of it all, frustrated and disappointed that his talents and time had been wasted by so dull and trifling a matter, Arthur spent most of the time in no very sweet temper, and Matthew considers it a small miracle he had not yet exploded into one his cutting verbal tirades (but perhaps he should not be so astonished, as Arthur did care much for gentlemanly behaviour, at least in public). He _did_ make some sarcastic remarks towards Alfred, who had brought the case to them in the first place, but Alfred, as usual, ignored them.

Matthew inwardly winces at the thought of the imminent explosion that would happen once they were in the privacy of their flat in Baker Street (he'd better remind his twin to not antagonize Arthur further today, or _else_), but that would be a much preferable outcome than Arthur locking himself in his rooms and sulking — with a bottle of whiskey, or worse, black rum.

Still, despite his irritation, Arthur agreed to come with Alfred for the arrest of Mr. Robert Blackwood. The affair would have been fairly routine; however, they could not find the dammed man in his house. The neighbours and the constable assigned to discreetly watch the house all said that Blackwood did not leave in his home all day.

"Then where the hell is he? He couldn't have flown away like a damn goose," Alfred had muttered under his breath. Behind him, Arthur was smirking, and would have made another insulting remark had not Alfred turned and glared at him. "Not a word from you."

Arthur raised one brow, his smirk widening. "As you wish," he said. He then proceeded to make himself comfortable on one of the chairs in the study. "Perhaps he could be hiding in a concealed space in the attic. Mattie and I will just sit here and let you do your job. I certainly wouldn't want to get in the way of your arrest."

Alfred's eyes narrowed, as if suspicious, but Arthur merely stared back at him. Matthew thought they'd try to outstare each other again, but Alfred looked away first. He shrugged. "Fine. Just stay here. And wait for me. I'll be back in three minutes." With a final, warning glance at Arthur and a nod to Matthew, he was out of the room.

The moment Alfred's footsteps faded into a faint echo, like a tightly wound coil, Arthur sprung up, startling Matthew, and began prowling about the room. He put a finger on his lips and whispered to Matthew, "Search for anything odd! There is something strange about this room, it's too–"

As soon as those words left his mouth, one of the walls slid open to reveal a gaping, square hole. And heartbeat later, Blackwell emerged, handsome face and everything else of him covered in white dust. He stood up, looked around, and then froze when he saw Matthew and Arthur.

It was almost amusing, really: the way Blackwell's eyes went wide as tea cups, the way Arthur and Matthew had also frozen from surprise, mouths open. The whole situation seemed like something out of a comedy.

That is, until the bastard pulled out his pistol from his pocket, and shot at them.

**Notes:**

I tried to be as medically accurate in the treatment of Arthur's wound, but I think I still fail.

Title is from a quote from _The Hound of the Baskervilles_. "It may be that you are not yourself luminous, but you are a conductor of light." Holmes here is referring to Watson, of course.

This should have been part of the first chapter, but I removed it because I didn't think it fitted in. This takes place _before_ the events in _Saving Grace_ and has in fact no basis in Sherlockian canon. Well, maybe it does have similarities with one part, which is possibly known as the SLASHIEST scene ever in SH canon. In _The Three Garridebs_, Watson is shot in the thigh by 'Killer' Evans. The usually stoic Holmes pistol-whips Evans, then rushes to Watson's side and cries out: "You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!" When he's assured Watson is okay, he tells Evans, "By the Lord, it is as well for you. If you had killed Watson, you would not have got out of this room alive."

Matthew here is but a medical student, so he isn't that quite knowledgeable yet as Watson in treating wound, especially gunshot ones.


	2. Chapter 2

**Title: **_**The Conductor of Light**_** [AU: **_**Saving Grace**_**-verse]**  
**Disclaimer: **Er, I don't own Hetalia.  
**Pairings:** Arthur × Alfred; hints of Francis × Matthew; Arthur + Matthew in this part  
**Rating:** PG-13, perhaps a bit of fluff. IDK.  
**Author's notes:** A (supposedly) two-part side-story for the multipart fic _The Saving Grace of Antiquity_ written for the usxuk ficathon. Sherlock Holmes AU. Arthur Kirkland is the world's foremost independent consulting detective. Matthew Williams is his trusty companion, assistant and chronicler, and Alfred F. Jones is the tenacious and enthusiastic detective sergeant of the Yard.  
**Warning:** Lots of spoilers for the Sherlock Holmes' stories. Also, this fic is possibly so fucking hurt/comfort cliché and fluff fail it burns. orz

**Part IIa**

Years later, Matthew still does not fully remember what follows after Blackwood's shot. It all seems like a terrible dream to him, a nightmare he does not care to relieve again.

Arthur tells him later that Blackwood took aim rather haphazardly, "like the drunken sot he is," the pistol's muzzle wavering between Matthew and Arthur before he fired. Matthew himself only recalls a terrible, deafening report, a sudden flash of light, all occurring simultaneously as a body (_Arthur_, it was Arthur's) slams against him from the side and knocks him down to the carpeted floor, where they land with a heavy thud.

He also has scant recollection of what happened next. One minute he was dazedly eyeing Arthur, who lay so deathly still on the floor, eyes closed, dark red blood starting to pool around his head, turning into a deep reddish brown as it seeped into the carpet; a heartbeat later Alfred was there beside him, holding his arms tight, shouting, "Stop it, Matthew! Stop it! Arthur needs you! A doctor's on his way, but he's–Arthur's bleeding bad!" The way Alfred's voice choked on his last words felt like ice water poured over his head, and he snaps back to himself and to awareness.

It still takes Matthew several moments to realise where he is, and notice that Blackwood is sprawled and whimpering beneath him on the floor, Matthew straddling him, and that he holds a splintered chair leg in one of his hands. He drops it as if it was a red-hot brand as the memory of Arthur shot and bleeding on the floor sears through his brain, and he struggles from Alfred's grasp, eyes looking wildly around the room. "Arthur–Is he–Is he–"

When he sees the familiar blond hair on the floor across the room, he gives out a gasp and he wrenches himself from his twin and rushes over to his former guardian's side, nearly bowling over Alfred.

Matthew drops to his knees beside Arthur, and forces himself to calm, even breaths, suppresses the sobs on his throat as he wills his shaking hands into steadiness. Then, when he feels he has calmed down enough, he bends over Arthur's body, and, as carefully as he could, begins to examine Arthur as best as he could.

Behind him, he could hear Alfred order his men to "get this piece of scum out of my sight" and Blackwood's whimpers and protests, but he ignores it and focuses on the matter at hand.

He looks and touches Arthur's head cautiously, looking for the wound from the sticky mess of blood and hair. He holds back his breath as he slowly and warily lifts Arthur's head from the floor to inspect the other side. He lets out a rush of breath when he sees a long, jagged bleeding gash against the scalp on the side of Arthur's head rather than a penetrating wound that would surely have spelled the end of the detective.

_Bleeding. That's right. I must stop the bleeding. Arthur is still bleeding_. Quickly pulling out his handkerchief from his pocket and pressing it against the wound, Matthew says loudly in a tremulous voice, to everyone and anyone in the room, "Cloth. I need clean cloth." Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Alfred immediately pulling off a pristine linen tablecloth from one of the tables, overturning the vases and glassware on it, which then fell and shattered into a million pieces.

* * *

Matthew finds out what he did much later, at the inquest, where Blackwood tells of how Matthew had rushed at him with a bloodcurdling roar of rage, "eyes screaming bloody murder," and punched him in the jaw with such force as to knock out several of his teeth, some of which he swallowed while the others tumbled down to the floor. Then Matthew grabbed a nearby chair and began pummelling Blackwood with it with "ferocious force" until it broke apart and he was left with the chair leg. To this day, Matthew remembers nothing of this, nor does he want to.

Arthur had been furious with Matthew when he learned what he had done. "You idiot! He could have shot you while you charged at him. Fortunately, Blackwood, the like the spineless, incompetent fool that he is, was too shaken by then with having shot a man and was easily cowed by your amateurish theatrics, so instead of shooting you, he merely froze and soiled himself." Matthew remained silent and subdued as Arthur raged, resisting the urge to reply, "He could have, but I was beyond caring if he did."

* * *

"You've done well, lad. A moment too late, and he would have bled to death."

"Thank you." Matthew says quietly to the doctor, not quite meeting the man's eyes. It still shames him deeply how he had acted before, how he had let his wrath take over rather than his good sense. Had it not been for Alfred, he would not have recovered his senses in time to save Arthur. The thought that Arthur would die from his foolishness was beyond what he could bear. _Never agai_n, he vowed to himself.

He looks past the doctor, to where Arthur is propped up on the sofa by cushions, awake now, no longer as pale as death, dressing neatly wrapped around his head. Colour had returned to his cheeks, his breathing no longer laboured. Behind the sofa was Alfred, standing guard over Arthur, a carefully blank look on his face, a sharp contrast to the dark scowl gracing the detective's features.

Arthur had been wearing one mere minutes after he woke up, when Alfred, finally reassured Arthur was well and would live, had proceeded to berate him for being "an impatient, arrogant arse." Arthur pointedly ignored him and instead sat up and looked about (much to the alarm of the doctor, Matthew and Alfred, with the latter having to reach out to grab Arthur's shoulders and steady him when he swayed dazedly at his sudden movements) and asked, "Mattie? Is he–"

Holding back tears, Matthew put his hands on Arthur's shoulders and smiled. "I'm all right, Arthur. I wasn't injured."

"And that blackguard, Blackwood? And his accomplice?" he pressed, resisting Alfred's efforts to making him lean against the cushions.

"He's been taken care of," Alfred growled, losing his patience and gently but firmly pushing him back. "Now be still and stop being an idiot and don't further injure yourself, old man." Arthur glowered at him, but said nothing and sat back in a huff.

Alfred had let the rest of his men take care of Blackwood (and an unexpected collaborator they had arrested upstairs, though how Arthur knew of the accomplice was anyone's guess) and would not leave Arthur's side while the doctor was treating him. Matthew doubts there is any power on Earth that could tear Alfred away from Arthur right now. Though he didn't show much of it, Matthew knew his twin well enough to know how shaken he was with what happened, how very close he is from utterly losing his composure.

He could only pray Alfred would reign in himself long enough for him to completely calm down and stop himself from lashing out at Arthur, or worse, at himself.

"Don't worry." The doctor follows Matthew's gaze, and then looks back at Matthew, and misjudges the concern on his face for anxiety for Arthur. He gave him reassuring smile. "He'll be all right. A couple of weeks of proper care and rest, and he'll be back to his old self."

"As you say, my good doctor," Arthur says with a grimace, though with a genial enough tone—far too genial, Matthew noted. The independent detective was never the best of patients; deprived of any mental and physical stimulation (and alcohol), Arthur becomes cantankerous and wily, always defying the doctor's orders. Matthew groans inwardly when he saw the sharp, cunning gleam in Arthur's green eyes, confirming his suspicions. He suddenly wished Arthur had simply remained unconscious until his wound recovered. Living with and taking care of him will be most difficult in the next two weeks.

The doctor scowls, as if sensing his patient's intended mischief. "You've lost a lot of blood, Mr. Kirkland, and a bullet grazing the side of the head is by no means an injury one should treat lightly. A gentleman as sensible and astute as your reputation says you are would know better than to overexert himself in such circumstances."

Arthur gives him a faint, ironic smile. "Ha. You have me there, Doctor. But I have been shot before, four times in fact, so I believe I would be exercising good sense should I trust my own judgment in deciding whether I am well enough for certain activities I will choose to do." He turns to Matthew. "Besides, Mr. Williams will be around to ensure that I am fully on the road to recovery."

Matthew's eyes go wide at implication of Arthur's words, and mutters out a few half-hearted protests. _Oh God, is this my punishment?_

"Be that as it may, Mr. Kirkland," the doctor said crisply, seemingly unfazed, "my experience as an assistant surgeon of the Army attached to the 66th Foot in Afghanistan has taught me to be wary of gunshot wounds, and that is best to exercise the utmost caution with them."

"Ah yes, I have deduced that. You have not completely lost your tan and your military bearing, even after all these years. I have no doubt you exercised the utmost caution when you were recovering from the Jezail bullet that struck your shoulder, which most likely shattered the bone and grazed your subclavian artery." The smile on Arthur's face turns to a smirk at the look of astonishment on the doctor's face. "Nasty business, that war. As well as that bullet. An interesting and fiendishly ingenious weapon though."

The doctor glares at Arthur, who only stares back with a small sated smile. Finally, the doctor sighs in exasperation and turns to Matthew. "Is he always like this?"

Matthew shakes his head. "Oh no. Sometimes he's worse."

Alfred suddenly coughs, drawing their attention. "Excuse me, but now that we've discussed Arthur and the doctor's state of health thoroughly, how about we stop talking and get this old man in the road to recovery already and get him home?"

**TBC**

**Notes:**

So I like Matthew lots. He's like my Hetalia crush. :D

If you can guess who was the doctor who treated Arthur, you are made of win.


	3. Chapter 3

**Part III**

Matthew considers it no small miracle that somehow he, Alfred and Arthur had managed to return to the flat in Baker Street later that night without Alfred expressing, in his usual loud and physical, manner, his extreme discontent with Arthur concerning the events that transpired at Blackwood's house.

However, that did not mean the tension around them since the good doctor had left after treating Arthur had eased. On the contrary, it had only worsened. Oh, they were not arguing loudly, as Alfred and Arthur are wont to do when they have rows, but Matthew knows from experience that all their frustration and anger are seething under an increasingly thin layer of politeness.

Alfred's anger and concern over the independent consulting detective's actions that had led to his near brush with death was very much palpable earlier, with his usual pleasant, jovial manner replaced with grim frowns, sharp, curt words directed at his twin and everyone else unfortunate enough to cross him in his bad temper, and narrow-eyed glares thrown at Arthur's and Matthew's direction.

In the carriage, Alfred continues to eye their former guardian with a look of helplessness and frustration, as if he would love nothing more on this Earth than to put his hands around Arthur's neck and throttle the life out of him to end their misery. Arthur, for most part, is very much intent on ignoring him, resolutely gazing out of the window throughout the drive, never once looking at them.

But then, perhaps more than divine interventions, Alfred's and Arthur's reticence may be because of Arthur's present state. It makes Matthew's heart clench, the sight before him, of Arthur's skin so pale, stark-white linen dressing wrapped 'round his head, yet still sitting in his characteristic stiff, straight-backed pose—Matthew would have preferred to have him leaning comfortably in his seat, but he knew his former guardian well enough to know Arthur would resist such suggestions, so he let him be rather than risk sparking a potential explosive argument among them—the occasional tightening of his glove-clad fingers around his silver-tipped cane's handle the only clue that he suffers any kind of discomfort brought about by the wound from Blackwood's bullet grazing the side of his head.

Matthew winces inwardly at the memory of Arthur's near brush with death just a few hours ago, the image of Arthur lying on the blood-soaked rug, unmoving and bleeding profusely still burned deeply into his consciousness. Had he been a minute too late in treating the wound and staunching the bleeding–

_Stop it, Matthew_, he tells himself firmly. _Arthur did not die. Arthur is injured, but he lives_. He tries to will himself to treat this event in the equable manner he always does when Arthur is injured, which was fairly often, but he could not. In all his years of being his companion and assistant, Matthew has never experienced Arthur being so close to death as he was in Blackwood's house.

"Danger, my dear boy, is but a daily part of a detective's life," Arthur had told him time and time again. And with Arthur the danger increased a tenfold; more often than not, the man had a healthy disregard for his own health and safety in his single-minded pursuit of a case, going on for days without food and sleep, or frequenting establishments and associating with people of questionable nature. These characteristics may give Arthur the edge against his rivals, but compound it with Arthur's drinking habits and oftimes headstrong nature and it is most assuredly an act of God that the man had not ruined himself to an early grave. Francis, who knew Arthur the longest, liked to ascribe Arthur's continuing good health to him having the luck of the devil, the stubbornness of a mule, and 'sweet _Mathieu's_ good care'.

_And look how well I did on that_, Matthew thinks bitterly. Truth be told, one of the reasons Matthew had decided to become a doctor and be Arthur's assistant was so he could keep a better eye on his former guardian's health, but at the way he has been going about his duties has been horrendously appalling. His loss of composure in such a critical time had nearly cost Arthur his life, and only through Alfred's efforts did he regain his senses to help his former guardian in time.

At the thought of his twin brother, Matthew looks at his brother out of the corner of his eye and finds Alfred slouching on his seat, arms folded across his chest, now regarding Arthur with an inscrutable look. To most people, it would seem as Alfred was now simply sulking and acting indifferent, but Matthew knew better.

Matthew vividly remembers the terror in Alfred's face when Arthur would not wake up, shaken to the very core at the thought of their former guardian possibly slipping away into death without him being able to do anything to stop it, and how hard his brother squeezed his hand as the doctor examined the injured detective, seeking support and reassurance as he did before when they were young whenever Arthur came home badly hurt.

Between the twins, it is Alfred who has always dealt with Arthur's injuries and lack of concern for his health and safety the most badly, not hesitating to berate Arthur for his 'stupidity'. He did that earlier while Arthur was being treated, and this silence was only a respite from the inevitable quarrel, as Matthew is sure Alfred would argue with Arthur again on this matter when they were back in the flat.

Matthew could only hope Alfred would exercise more tact in admonishing Arthur this time (though knowing his twin, this is a highly improbable thing to happen).

The ride home is smooth so far, and Alfred maintained his deadpan expression, that is until Arthur gave an almost imperceptible wince of pain and swayed ever so slightly when the carriage jolted through potholes on the street. For a moment, so fleeting that Matthew would have thought he had imagined it happened at all, had he not known his twin's nature, the look was replaced with one of immense concern and alarm. Alfred's body tensed, a coiled spring ready to burst into action, and he leaned forward, as if he would reach out to catch and steady their former guardian should he fall, but before he could, Arthur caught and righted himself. Alfred then sank back to his seat into his former position, and glanced away from their former guardian, who appeared not to have noticed Alfred's actions.

Alfred did not look at Arthur again, and all was quiet and still until they reached Baker Street.

----

Though he knew he would be refused, Matthew still held out his hand to Arthur as an offer of assistance as he stepped out of the carriage. To his surprise, Arthur accepts his offer, grasping his hand with a surprisingly strong grip, and allows himself to be helped down, letting go of Matthew's hand as soon as his feet touched the ground.

Matthew tries to ignore the frown his twin sends him from behind Arthur, and focused instead on observing their former guardian, who had begun to briskly climb the seventeen steps that led to the sitting room on first floor and to Arthur's room, not even bothering to greet their startled landlady, who had opened the door at Arthur's vigorous ringing. Matthew follows hurriedly just behind him, though not before tipping his hat and smiling reassuringly to their landlady, who had paled when he saw Arthur's appearance. Alfred follows them at a more leisurely pace, his frown disappearing for a moment to grin charmingly at the landlady before heading up to the rooms.

Despite his bursts of strength, Arthur, Matthew observes, is paler than before, brow dewed with a fine sheen of sweat, eyes ringed dark with exhaustion. Matthew glances at his bandages, and with a quick once-over checks if blood is soaking through the dressing, and is relieved it was not so. He'd have to examine and clean Arthur's wound later, and he hopes that the man would be sensible enough to be cooperative. The consulting detective has never been the easiest of patients.

"Please cease looking as if I would collapse at any moment, Matthew," says Arthur in his crisp, cutting voice as he pauses in front of the door to open it. He glances over his shoulder, looking at Matthew with a disgruntled expression. Matthew felt his cheeks grow warm with embarrassment; Arthur could always read him like a book. "And while I'm well aware of the good doctor's orders, I intend comport myself as I see sufficient."

"You mean you're going to be a difficult, inconsiderate ass the whole time, isn't that so?" Alfred says in an acerbic manner that makes Matthew tense and hold his breath. He knew that tone well. Alfred was spoiling for a fight, an argument, anything familiar that would dispel this suffocating tension around them and shift them back into their normal pattern of behaviour. In most occasions, this would have worked, but today, Matthew realizes with growing dread, there far too much things simmering and shifting underneath for anyone of them to leave unscathed, figuratively and literally.

Arthur merely glares at Alfred, refusing to rise to the bait, and heads for the sideboard to pour himself a glass of water, Matthew is relieved to see (he was afraid Alfred would go for the scotch or the brandy). Most of the time, at this point, they would all sit down and discuss the case, but they all chose to remain standing up, a tense silence between them.

After a few moments, Alfred broke through the silence, thought at hindsight Matthew wished he had just kept his mouth shut. "From this day on, you're not allowed to take part on any official police business," he blurted out.

Arthur merely raised his brows, and his lips curved into that arrogant smirk that would only serve to infuriate Alfred. "Somehow, I doubt you have the authority to prevent me from doing so, considering how inept Scotland Yard is in solving crimes–"

"That is _not_ the reason why you're not–This is not about you being able to solve a case or not," Alfred cuts in, voice cold, fingers curling into fists. He takes an aggressive step toward Arthur, and jabs a finger into the air in his direction. "This is because you're far too irresponsible, disobeying orders and breaking protocol–"

Arthur snorts in disbelief. "You _dare_ lecture me on the matter of responsibility and obedience when you yourself–"

"_You could have died!_" Alfred shouts, voice loud enough to reverberate across the room, rattling the glass on the windows. "You got shot and would have bled to death, and all of this could have avoided had you told us that you suspected someone was hiding in that room! You knew Blackwood has no qualms on using violence to get what he wants—he killed Lord Greymail by bludgeoning him to death–"

"–that was actually the work of his accomplice–"

"That is not the point I am trying to make! Nor is that information relevant in this argument." Alfred rakes his fingers through his hair in frustration, looking as if he would like nothing better than to grab Arthur by the shoulders and shake him _hard_, injury or no. "God, Arthur, you don't even see it, do you? You could have died, and your death would have been on my head–"

Arthur's lips curl to an ugly sneer, his tone heavy with scorn. "Ah, I see, this is about _my_ death possibly tarnishing _your_ pristine reputation in the force. We can't have anyone dying at Detective Inspector Jones' watch, can we?"

"_Arthur!_" Matthew says sharply in a voice filled with reproach and distress as he recoils at Arthur's callousness. "How could you even think that's what important to Alfred–"

"That's enough, Mattie," Alfred interrupts in the quiet voice he has when he is beyond furious but is holding back his temper as best as he could. He puts his shaking hand on Matthew's shoulder and turns to Arthur with an expression of pure contempt. "I don't care if you chose to endanger yourself, but I won't have it that you endanger other, especially _my_ brother as well with your thoughtlessness."

"How _dare_ you!" Arthur's face contorts with rage, and he strides towards Alfred, then stops himself when he was a feet or so away. "I would _never_ endanger Matthew's safety in–"

"You do, and you have! Often, too." It was Alfred's turn to snort in disbelief. "Francis was right about you. I didn't believe it until now, but you really are an inconsiderate, selfish, heartless _bastard_. You don't care at all if you or anyone else gets hurt as long as you get your way."

Matthew lets out a quiet gasp at Alfred's words. Arthur had gone impossibly white, and for a moment Matthew could see in his eyes that he was hurt, but immediately after his green eyes turn as hard as agates, and Matthew feared Arthur would strike his twin and they would come to blows. But instead, Arthur, jaw clenched tight, merely turned his back to Alfred and strode to his desk, yanking open a desk drawer and taking out a silver flask.

"Arthur…"

"Please see the detective inspector out, Matthew, if you would be so kind," Arthur said, his voice almost inhumanly calm and unaffected. "I believe we have wasted enough of his precious time. I'm sure he has more important matters to deal with." Then, without waiting for Matthew's reply, he goes to his bedroom, slamming the door shut loudly and with such force the flat shook.

"But Arthur–!" Matthew calls out, his stomach growing heavy with dread and worry. If he let Arthur be, he could lock himself in his rooms for days, drinking brandy from that hated flask, and refuse to go out and be treated. _His wound could get infected and fester!_ He whips round to Alfred to berate him for antagonising Arthur in his current condition, but the words did not come out when he saw the look of wretched misery on his face, his eyes bright with what seemed to Matthew as unshed tears. Swallowing the lump lodged in his throat, Matthew finds himself torn between hitting his brother and pulling him into a tight embrace.

"Alfred–" he begins to say, but his brother raises a hand to silence him. "Don't say it, Mattie. I'm right. He knows it, I know it."

Matthew only gives him a sad smile, touches Alfred's cheek, and wonders for the umpteenth time how is it that have it in them to hurt the ones we they care for the most. "No," he says quietly. "I don't think you mean what you said."

Alfred frowns at the touch, and then he turns his back to him. "I'm going back to my rooms. I need to get up early and write those reports." He pauses from opening the door and looks over his shoulder. "You can come with me if you like. Not that I care."

Matthew stares at his brother for a moment, and then turns to Arthur's still shut door, considering his options. "I'll come with you," he says finally, and follows his twin brother out of the room.

**TBC**

**Notes:**

Well fuck this got too long. And probably does not make much sense. IDK.

Detective inspectors in England are "equal in rank to their uniformed counterparts, the prefix 'detective' identifying them as having been trained in criminal investigation and being part of or attached to their force's Criminal Investigation Department." Alfred's a bit young for the position, but he rose rather fast through the ranks.


End file.
